


When I Woke I Was Weeping

by Aewin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Desperation, F/F, Implied/Referenced Mindfang/Dolorosa, Mind Control, Omorashi, Orgasm Denial, Power Imbalance, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Revenge, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/pseuds/Aewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vriska doesn't like being ignored, <em>especially</em> by her moirail. She's also got a fantasy from Mindfang's journal to play out. Pair these facts with Vriska's obsessive drive for revenge, and Kanaya is in deep trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Woke I Was Weeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meoqie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meoqie/gifts).



> Special thanks to [Grimreaperchibi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimreaperchibi/pseuds/Grimreaperchibi) for advice during the outlining process, and to [Doxian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian) for giving me the most in-depth, helpful beta I've ever had the pleasure of receiving.
> 
> It's always fun writing twisted characters and situations, so this was a blast to fill. (And I hope the fact that the sex is mind-controlled as well is okay; I didn't really have a way to ask about that.) Enjoy!

 

Trollian pings for what must be the eighth time in a row, and you look up from your sewing to find your husktop screen awash in cerulean text. You pull it closer, regretting that you didn’t put down the shirt cuff you were working on earlier. Mother grub only knows what has your moirail so talkative. A quick skim reassures you that she’s simply excited about her supposed Ancestor’s journal again, and you heave a sigh of relief that it's not something worse.

 

AG: So o8viously, Eridan and I were f8ed to be!  
AG: Aaaaaaaanyways, this journal has some super awesome stuff that’s not a8out him, too.  
AG: Are you even there?  
AG: Ugh, please tell me I’m not just typing into the ether here, you know how I h8 that.  
GA: I Assure You I Am Here  
GA: I Was Merely Waiting Until You Finished Gushing Like A Subbjuglators Hemofountain  
GA: Congratulations On Your Supposedly Fated Romance  
GA: May It Remain Fulfilling For Sweeps To Come  
AG: Ugh, is that all you have to say??  
AG: Mindfang’s kismesissitude with Dualscar is the kind of blackrom the bardecimators write SONNETS about! Did you even read the passage I typed up?  
AG: Why do I *8other*?  
GA: I Read It  
GA: But I Will Admit There Was Rather More Detail Than I Cared To Know Given That I Am Still Skeptical About This Whole Ancestor Thing In The First Place  
GA: Couldnt You Have Simply Summed It Up Rather Than Copying The Entirety of That Passage On Dualscar  
AG: No!!! The details are the important 8its, fussyfangs! 8esides, you needed to know all that for what comes l8er. It’s the 8est part!!!

 

You highly doubt that. Dealing with Vriska is giving you a pan-ache _without_ involving more of her seemingly-endless ancestral texts, and you’ve needed to relieve yourself for an hour now. Your urine accumulation sac is beginning to get quite uncomfortable.

 

GA: I Am Afraid I Must Put That Bit Off For Later  
GA: I Have A Shirt To Sew And  
GA: Uh  
GA: A Man To See About A Barkbeast  
AG: 8ut it involves YOUR ancestor!!! AND mine!

 

You hesitate. It might be interesting to know—but no, she’s just trying to drag your attention back to her, and as her moirail the best (and most difficult) thing you can do to help Vriska better herself is to teach her to deal with hearing _no_ from time to time.

 

GA: I Look Forward To Hearing About It Tomorrow  
GA: But For Now I Really Must Go  
GA: Good Bye Vriska

 

You let your status to invisible just in time—you’re bombarded with a flurry of messages an instant later.

 

AG: W8!!! I have good reason to 8elieve they were flushm8s!  
AG: U88888888h!  
AG: You are the WORST sometimes, the a8solute WORST.  
AG: See if I EVER sh8re anything else with you now!!!  
AG: …8ctually, I think I know what the problem is!  
AG: O8viously it’s 8etter to tell a story than to type it. Duh!  
AG: I’m coming over, and I just hope you’re ready to listen when I get there!!!

 

A glance at your time-telling apparatus informs you that it is nearly 4 in the morning, and you sigh as you realize that this means Vriska will likely stay the day (and complain about your sleep schedule the entire time). Maybe if you’re quick about it, you can finish that shirt before she gets here. But first, that trip to the load gaper.

A glance at your time-telling apparatus informs you that it is 4:13 A.M. The stitches are a perfectly even distance from the edge of the cuff all the way around, and you pull the shirt from your machine with satisfaction, snipping the threads flat against the fabric. Now for that trip to the load gaper. (You could swear you remember leaving the room for the ablutionblock just a moment ago. How silly of you; you obviously didn’t, with the way your bladder is sitting heavy in your gut, painfully swollen. Ah, well. It’s a simple thing to rectify, really.)

A glance at your time-telling apparatus informs you that it is 4:28 A.M. You’re halfway through the hem of your shirt when it hits you that you really ought to go to the load gaper. You’re not a fan of leaving things mid-stitch, but it’s gotten to the point where your legs are shifting constantly to relieve the pressure on your bladder, to no avail. Actually, you can’t imagine why you haven’t gone yet. Blame it on your growing headache, perhaps. Thankfully, this problem is not unresolvable; you’ll simply head downstairs and—

A glance at your time-telling apparatus informs you that it is 4:53 A.M. You pull your hand from the sewing machine wheel in disgust; your bladder is pushing against your internal organs so strenuously that your bulge has nearly been forced from its sheath, and it’s distracting you to the point where you can’t keep up a steady pace on the machine due to the way your arms and legs jerk nervously every few seconds. The second half of your shirt’s hem is crooked. You'll have to rip it out and redo the whole thing if you want it to be presentable in public.

Actually, you don’t remember sewing the hem at all. When did that happen?

A flash of pain sears through your head, making you wince. Maybe you’d better go relieve yourself and ingest a paingrub for the pan-ache. Yes, you think you’ll do that.

You scoot your chair back, flinching at the pressure on your abdomen that the action causes. Every step is agony; it’s much easier to hold it in when you’re sitting. Your bulge slips out of its sheath to accommodate your swollen bladder, and it swipes against the front of your skirt with every step you take, tinting the material a dark green. Given that this is your favorite skirt, you _really_ hope that washes out. The pressure of fabric against your bulge begins to send mixed signals of arousal to your thinkpan, and you wince at the indignities of biology as you shuffle across the room with your legs clamped tightly together.

Silver glints in the corner of the room, and a terrible thought flits into your head. You’ve got pails in here, and though you’re certainly not going to relieve yourself in one (you’re a jadeblood; you have certain standards to adhere to with regards to reproductive devices), perhaps if you’re able to get yourself off quickly enough, you can drain your genetic material sac and relieve its pressure on your bladder?

Normally you wouldn't even consider it when you have more pressing urges, but to be perfectly frank, you’re not sure you can _make_ it to the load gaper before losing control. The pail plan really is your only hope.

You lurch over to a pile of cushions with a sigh, clenching against the insistent urge to pee as you lean over to grab a pail from behind the recuperacoon. Working your skirt up over your thighs so you can spread your legs is harsh torture, involving many more abdominal muscles than you anticipated, but then your bulge is free and in your hand and everything is beautiful relief until you cast about for something to fantasize about. Your head pounds, your bladder twinges, and _Vriska_ , of all people, comes to mind.

You’re not sure why, but you keep going, imagining those perfectly-painted lips wrapped around your bulge and envisioning how she might crawl up your body and press her soft rumble spheres against you, slip inside of you, thrash into you lovingly until you come, wrapped around her and sighing into her hair. A moan escapes from your lips as you think of just how _pitiful_ she is; it’s always her, her, _her_ , she has so many issues, and you’re going to be the one to fix them, regardless of quadrant, so maybe…just _maybe_ …red wouldn’t be so bad.

Your attention snaps back to the real world in the most embarrassing manner possible: a long, hot spurt of pee forces its way out of you, and you cry out in horror as it soaks into your pillow. _No!_ You’re so close to coming, right at the edge, you can’t lose it now! You clench down hard and work your bulge furiously, granted temporary relief of a sort thanks to the sheer volume of liquid lost in the slip.

You work your fingers into your nook, and you fight biology valiantly, clenching down around them and against the inevitable flow of urine. Your body fights you; every time you clench, your bladder pushes back, urging you to let go, and it makes you flutter in waves around your fingers, almost like orgasm, until you simply _can’t_ hold it any more. A flood of warmth flows out from just above your nook, and when you fight back this time you can’t even stop it temporarily. It just keeps coming in a seemingly endless stream, and you could hate yourself for feeling so _good_ now that it’s happening.

The stream trickles down into droplets, and you sigh with relief before reality sets in: you just peed yourself like a wriggler.

What is _wrong_ with you?

Why did you think this was a good idea? Why didn’t you just relieve yourself _earlier?_ You can’t remember why you didn’t just use the load gaper. Everything is fuzzy and wet and painful, and—

“Oh, my. Look at you, darling. Aren’t you just a pitiful sight?” Vriska leans against the doorframe, grinning her sharp grin, and you begin to have an inkling as to why you can’t remember how you got here.

You push your skirt down frantically, trying to cover your still-writhing bulge and the mess of fluid, but it’s no good. Your pillow is soaked, your skirt is soaked, your fingers are soaked. A slow puddle spreads around you, green and shameful, and you cover your face in horror.

“I—Vriska, why would you—”

There’s a _tsk_ , and you can’t recall what you were just so mad about. And look, Vriska’s here, kneeling in your lap and stroking your hair. She called you her darling, isn’t that wonderful? You reach out, trembling, for the top button of her jacket. You’re not sure why; it just feels _right_.

“Now, now, Kanaya. Control yourself.” She seems pleased at her own comment, pausing for a small smile before moving aside. “Come over here, to someplace less wet, and I’ll tell you all about our Ancestors. Oh, and take that skirt off first. You've already been rude enough, soiling yourself in front of a guest. Let's avoid spreading the mess, shall we?"

You comply, standing and shaking your skirt off in a daze. (When did it get so wet?) You discard it in the puddle at your feet, and step forward shyly to work at her second button, going on instinct. A part of you recoils from the action, but you quash that reaction immediately, because if you didn’t want to be doing this, you wouldn’t be.

Right?

Her jacket peels off beautifully, and the urge to touch her flesh overwhelms. Your hand slips down into her petticoat, tracing along the subtle curves beneath, and you find yourself astonished by your own forwardness. Still, you’re but a moment away from re-enacting your fantasy, and there’s no reason to stop now, not unless she protests. You kneel, helping her out of the rest of her clothing and folding it tidily before stripping off your shirt and turning back to her.

Her expression is pleased, and she’s practically purring as she looks you over. A shudder (of pleasure? revulsion?) runs through you, and you return to her eagerly when she reclines against another pile of pillows and crooks her finger at you. Her bulge is out, languidly curling against her lower stomach, and she laughs harshly when you hesitate to touch it.

“Come, Kanaya. There’s no need for hesitation. Just as your Ancestor was a servant to the needs of mine, we are fated to be together as well. Go on. Take what I know you want.”

You _do_ want her, very much so, and you prove it to her by sinking to your knees and pressing your nook to her bulge, shuddering at the cool slickness as she teases the tip inside of you. You work her length into you slowly, tracking the progress of the soft spines near the tip until they’re nestled against your shame globes, encouraging you to grind against her for stimulation. She hisses at the first solid rock of your hips, her hands grasping your waist.

“She— _ah!_ —she took your Ancestor just like this, you know. Right in front of Dualscar. Rutted with her on the floor, freshly flushed, just to irk him. Really, you should be glad I didn’t invite Eridan.”

You are _very_ glad she didn’t invite Eridan. The thought makes you grimace with disgust, and you lean forward to distract the both of you, taking one perked-up nipple into your mouth. You roll it along your tongue and suck, drawing a moan from Vriska.

The urge to bite is nearly overwhelming for some reason, but your fangs are too sharp; you’d draw blood, and this is red, hardly the quadrant for such actions. (At least, you _think_ Vriska wants this red. Part of you wonders if perhaps...but no, she's made it clear what this is. You're ashamed of these black leanings, and more than a bit confused by your warring emotions. Best to move on.) You switch to her other nipple, but the urge to bite is still strong, so you remove yourself from temptation and press yourself against her lips instead, loving the way they part so you can drink in her very breath. It’s so romantic, just like one of your novels, though you've admittedly never read about a love interest that tastes like Vriska's heady blend of pepper and lipstick.

Vriska’s hand tangles in your hair and pulls you deeper into the kiss. You melt into her, pleased that she wants you this obviously. Heat rises between you as her tongue slips into your mouth, her teeth nicking at your lips, and you intensify your grinding, reaching down to work at your slick bulge as she arches up against you. This may be your first time, but you’ve read enough rainbow drinker novels to guess that she’s nearing climax, and you want to come with her, or as close as you can.

Her eyes snap open, and she looks around frantically.

“Fuck, leave your bulge, just— _pail_ , Kanaya! Get the pail!”

The discarded bucket is close enough that you’re able to stretch out behind you and reach it with your fingertips, and you maneuver it beside you with a smile, nearly disbelieving the fact that you’re actually doing this. You’re about to pail with Vriska, with such a wonderful, smart, beautiful—

_No, this is wrong, she’s my moirail, I didn’t—_

Vriska pushes you off and rises to her knees over the bucket, her fingers working furiously in her nook, and you have a horrible, sinking feeling in your stomach as she moans.

_How did—Why is she naked, why is there a pail, I don’t—_

Cerulean material cascades from her bulge, and you think you’re going to vomit. How _dare_ she control you, after all you’ve done for her? If she had only asked, you would have filled a pail with her in a heartbeat, but no, she didn’t, she just had to get her revenge in the most reprehensible way possible. A fierce hatred rises inside of you, and you growl, long and menacing. You _hate her_. She needs to be taught a lesson, and you’re just the troll to do it. Your hand balls into a tight fist, and you aim directly for that gasping, self-satisfied mouth of hers—the mouth she _violated_ you with—with all the considerable force you can muster. There’s a flash of shock in her eyes as she registers your intent, and your pan is suddenly overheated, raw, worn-out, scalding the inside of your skull. You stumble forward, your hand going slack, and the tension drains from your body as everything comes back into focus again.

There's a pail nearby, half-full of material. Oh, that's right, Vriska donated her material, and now it’s your turn, that’s how this works. You let go of her wrist and shuffle to the edge of the pail, stroking your writhing bulge desperately, driving yourself towards that sweet edge of release—

And Vriska laughs, detached and cold, and your hands are pinned at your sides, your bulge denied the friction you need to come.

“Filthy slaves don’t get to share pails with their betters, Maryam. _Especially_ when they won’t listen to them talk about very important things. Clean this place up, and scrub that floor you ruined."

You do, of course. Whatever Vriska wants, she gets, and you’re happy to serve.

You clean your block in a daze; scrubbing the floor, throwing out your skirt, and disposing of the pail’s contents in the ablution trap. Vriska watches with her arms crossed, a smirk on her lips. The last thing you hear before you’re thrown into a fitful, nightmare-disturbed sleep is the snap of fingers from somewhere nearby.

You never do find out what happened to your favorite skirt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Soil To The Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgTa6ozxZbE) by Cage The Elephant:
> 
> _In the depths of my mind I laid sleeping_  
>  _Well I had such a dream when I woke I was weeping_  
>  _The vision I saw danced around me_  
>  _And my heart saw the things that my eyes couldn't see_
> 
> Rebloggable tumblr post [here](http://solluxisms.tumblr.com/post/91596942575/when-i-woke-i-was-weeping-2918-words-by-aewin-ao3).


End file.
